Twatlight: A Memoir
by clapyourbootyintehair
Summary: Balony Swanning knows from the moment that the mysterious Nedword Culong enters class that he's the finest pair of clapping booties she's ever seen. (Warnings for Taco Bell, Darude and mild drug use.) Pairings: Balony/Nedword, Nedword/foot.


'Twatlight'

by Steponapony Mooer

Yo, dawgs. I'm Balony Swanning, and this is my super sex story.

I was lying in bed this one morning in my moody house, because that is what I perpetually do. You see, the house is crippled by several boxes of large pizzas we keep hostage in the loft. This was a Wednesday morning, and as I turn over and wrap the bed-sheets between my legs, hair tangled over my sexy face, I could hear them screaming.

"Now't yooo dun wan ta be mayking little noyse now dooes youoos?" I obstinately holler skywards, into the creaking floorboards that are surely caving under the weight of all those pizzas. But, alas, they do not hear me. Nobody ever hears me. The pizzas make life a melancholy drag, prolonged and cancerous as one from my dad's cigarette's. But more fucking noisy.

So I rise to my feet and stagger downstairs, at one point caving and rolling with the sheer velocity of a dog in a bun to the bottom step. Crunch. There goes the cereal in my back pocket.

"Yo dahhhd – are you up or now't?" But there's no reply. I saunter into the kitchen and leave a trail of cereal behind me as a go, littering the carpet like a heady concoction of fine ass weed bro. One thing I should hasten to add right now is that I have a condition (no not a weird ass one where my scalp peels or my toes turn inwards) where no one can hear me unless I lower my voice two whole octaves and talk like my dad's old crack dealer. (It's a family talent.)

I'm actually cold ass bored of retelling this part of the day so let's skip, my floppy Johnny, to the good part.

I was in Biololology, where we were charged with the responsibility-laden task of committing a whole hour to stetetetem celllllll burning over a small microwaves. Just then, with a waft of dead-fish smell, this new guy wiggles into the classroom. Well, damn hot damn. He's got on him the finest pair of clapping booties I ever did see, but I hold in the purple urgency of my raging lady-boner and look away, out the window, to where I can see storm clouds brewing. Cloying smell, he walks closer, then sits down heavily next to me. He bounces in his seat (it's cuz of those voluptuous buns.)

"Yo, ho. My name's Nedword Culong, and you're under arrest to be my fwiend." He murmurs saucily from beside me, propping his chin on his hand and his elbow on the table and his feet on the bottom of the science-room stool. He has eyes like candy pies and, oh lord, he hasn't even got adult teeth yet.

"Yo, homie. I hear you talk my street slang, you dig? Weed in the window-box, bruv." I lower my voice seductively, and his eyes lid with amorous intent. Oh yeah. I'm in there like a kipper in a sock.

"Nawhawhaw." He laughs like a donkey. "You smell hella ass fine, my haddy. I would bear appreciate stealing a whifter for my home collection of sweaty-hair fragrances. You dig?"

"Wot? Yo not gun ask my name furst before stealing my grease stench? God, you a dog. You a dirty ass dog." I quip, and his face blanches in horror.

"Aw naw, bruv. Naw – what's youra dog tag, thens?"

"The name's Balony Swanning, and I ain't your friend." I kick him good-naturedly under the table. He has a fine complexion that appears radiant and alabaster even in this scarce, melancholy light of a dour day. Freckles cluster fine and delicate across the bridge of his nose, and his eyes wrap up a myriad of hot, molten hues into the scant space of those irises – blue, green, brown, some hint of mouldy hot-dog that I overlook because, lawd, those buns are something special. Then, because I've just kneed him square in the Johnny's, his serene expression twists into one of agony, and he flops like a haddock indeed from the stool. His chin no longer in his hand his elbow no longer on the table, and his feet most certainly not on the bottom of the science-room stool.

"Bruv! Nah, bruv, gedup!" I wail in remorse, dropping heavily to my knees on the cold ground. He convulses right there, about as twisted as a savoury pretzel from Costco.

"Jet no and to eh lepper bouy!" Mr Sandstorm Darude chooses this unfortunately inopportune moment to enter, propping his books up against the door and scuffling over the heaping mound of discarded student bags and several bloodied limbs. No big deal. (Tiffany's on a new diet where she just cuts off the fat bits, meaning EVERYTHING.)

Mr Sandstorm Darude fixes me with an accusatory glare and I wither under his stony gaze.

"I dowt nutfing, blad, you dun understanndddpjo!"

"Get ye to the breach!" And that's code for "drag the slimy bastard to the sick bay, you lil wallowy cunt."

So I do. I drag Nedword by the swollen ankles, and apologise profusely as I haul him through Tiffany's off-cuts, towards the sick bay. He moans and grumbles and lolls his head against the floor. Tiffany's rust-stinking blood coagulates in his fair hair and his shirt hitches up above his naval, exposing the deft line of his hairy puffa fish. I can scarcely deal with this, and I avert my gaze politely. I've never seen one of those before. The medical bay woman slimes out from underneath her desk and crests like a swallow beside him, flicking and flicking until he's alright. There. Done. I'm cold ass bored of this part, too, but you get the idea. Nedword Culong is a little ass wipe with no head for blood and a super-sensitive lower leg.

Skip three months and Nedword and I have been cohabitating in Taco Bell for about a week or so, scuffling Taco's from underneath the counter with long tongue while people wait for their order.

Okay, I'm super fucking bored of this cold ass shit, so...

Basically, we do the frick frack under the Taco Bell counter, and it's underwhelming and his breath smells of rancid Mexican food. So I decided that for making my mouth a stink ass ho I would haul him into one of the bins and take over the food chain all by myself. Thayere. I am a woman who don't need no man, and he was a man who wouldn't eat no flan. I know I'm a poet but please don't shower this novelette with too many shining reviews.


End file.
